Foreman
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: The foreman is the head of construction, or the head of the Constructicons. Either way, Prowl's in charge.
1. Chapter 1

_The foreman is the head of construction, or the head of the Constructicons. Either way, Prowl's in charge. _

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**Title: **Foreman

**Warning: **Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **IDW, Robots in Disguise

**Characters: **Prowl, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things.

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**Part One **

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Prowl, Constructicons – "masturbation, gestalt voyeurism"

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They were close.

Always so close. On the edge of his mind, tentative presences around the corona of his spark, bright bold personalities oppressively closed around him. They didn't overwhelm him, now that he was fully conscious of who he was and had been, but they were there. Their sparks burnt like lights in Cybertron's starry perpetual night, a constant presence that felt familiar above him even on alien worlds, and they tried to exploit that subconscious acceptance of their presence. He saw by their muted light even when he wasn't consciously aware that they hovered about him.

He was conscious of them now. He hadn't been, at first. The temporary bond had hurt to sever, but he'd welcomed the jarring agony when Ironhide separated them. It had been easy to bury any sense of the Constructicons in the pain of the snapped bond. He'd _wanted_ to forget, and it had been easy to block the gestalt bond. Stars were distant, after all, despite being always overhead. Staying focused on important matters blotted them out.

It'd been harder after they tracked him down. The severed bond kept sending strands into him, dabbing at the raw ends in his spark and pulling at the gestalt links, urging him to combine. The Constructicons pushed. They crowded. They courted, in their blunt, awkward, _violent_ way. They were distant lights shining brighter to get in his optics no matter which way he turned to look away.

Knowing what he knew about them, feeling how they functioned, it made sense in retrospect. They hadn't wanted an Autobot to replace Scrapper. They hadn't wanted anyone, much less an unknown barging in to intrude on their gestalt bond, but Megatron had given the orders. Therefore they had obeyed. That was survival, among Decepticons: obey or die. So the Constructicons had ripped open the scarred bond, exposed their greatest vulnerability, and welded him into the wound like a medical patch. Five mechs had wrapped his mind-controlled body in their own, linked in, and hoped for the best. He would either shield the chink in their bond by joining them, or they'd die from his weakness.

Well, they hadn't died. He was strong, stronger than Bombshell had realized and Megatron had planned for. The Constructicons had combined - and they'd lost themselves in him. That's how a gestalt bond and the links worked. They were used to throwing themselves wholesale into joining together, and he hadn't had the presence of mind to hold back. Their separate minds and bodies had combined.

They'd hurled mind and body into the joining, and they'd become Tab A for Slot B. He'd slid in with an ease that seemed obscene, thinking back on it. He tried not to, but the memories were mutual, bridges that he frantically wished would burn. He rejected the memories, rejected _them_, but neither would leave him be. Six minds held those memories in common. The other five minds savored every remembered aspect of their first time combining.

He blocked them out, but they were close, always so close. They refused to let him forget. The memories of oiled parts gliding together pricked at the edges of his thoughts, split second flashes of sensor input reminding him of the slick coat of grease over parts he hadn't even known he had until they were socketing home in hot ports. Those ports had closed around new, sensitive components that still twitched when mind and spark lost the fight to the gestaltmates dredging reminders up.

He'd slid home as if he belonged in them, part of them, and they'd marveled at the fit. Their minds had folded around his mind as their bodies accepted him as their head.

He hadn't reciprocated that acceptance. His thoughts had been far too warped by Bombshell's hold on him to be in his right mind. Instead, he had seized the combine like the weapon it had felt like to his addled senses. He'd seized them, molded them to his specifications, his demands, and proceeded to use them as an extension of himself. Oh, he'd seen into their minds just as they'd seen into his, but he'd recoiled while they'd invaded. Revulsion still filled him in equal measure to the active fascination bubbling at the borders of his thoughts. They had been fascinated by him; he'd been revolted. When Ironhide had woken him, he'd dropped the combine as if it'd scalded him.

Like the hilt of a superheated sword, his mental hands had stuck until he tore their melted minds apart. The consequences lingered in the gaping wound where the bond lay inside them. In the aftermath, the Constructicons were lovestruck by his total dominion, the impression his control left in their sparks and minds. Prowl just…tried not to think about it. He didn't like remembering the feel of them. It made his armor crawl and hands clench, empty of a perfect weapon.

As long as they'd stayed away from him, he could ignore the whispers at the edge of hearing. The gestalt bond was there without having the strength to fully integrate, frayed threads grasping after missing components. Given enough time and distance, he'd hoped the bond would die. Disused parts eventually locked down, and wounds capped. The faint voices and pulses of memory he'd suffered were a necessary price to pay for freedom. Call it battle damage. He'd intended to on, and eventually, the bright sparks nibbling at his own would fade away.

They'd known that's what he hoped. He could tell. They'd chased after him because they'd welcomed the bond, but they'd felt how he kept choking his side. The Constructicons, on the other hand, had let it bloom to full strength inside them. Their side of the bond wouldn't scar over again, not so long as he was alive for them to reach for through it.

They'd lost one team leader. They'd just chosen their new replacement. No way were they letting him go that easily.

Physically, they were all over him any time they could get away with it. Hiding behind coordinating the refugee movement had barely kept them from shadowing him _everywhere_. Sticking close to Bumblebee didn't help much. They waited until duty inevitably drew him away, and then they swarmed him. Hands passed through his EM field in shallow pulses of intent he narrowly dodged. Bodies crowded close, going for full contact that required him to actually push them aside. The gleaming pleasure that swiped through the periphery of his spark told him that's what they intended.

They wanted to touch him. They wanted to merge with him. They wanted him. In the midst of the apocalypse, in taking on Shockwave's plotting and the chaos of Cybertron falling to pieces around them, they wanted him.

Arcee grinned and sparred with them, joking that his 'harem' needed to blow off steam since he wasn't tending to them, and there was no way to respond to that, especially not as the whole unit turned to gaze at him, greedy and wanting. Lust billowed in a cloud around and through him. The bond moaned, shivering against his spark as memory flashed and called. The links yearned for connection in a needy, aching way that his body had no other parallel to draw but -

Prowl coughed indignation loose when it stuck in his throat and retreated. It was the best option available. Arcee laughed carelessly and kept them busy a few minutes more while he escaped. It was a service he appreciated right then.

He avoided the Constructicons with single-minded concentration after that, but they found him. They were close, always so close, stifling and welcoming at the same time. They were a prison as well as a constant support around him, and the worst part was feeling gratified by that support when Chromedome and Ultra Magnus lost their minds. Both Autobots let emotions get the better of them, something he found an unpleasant surprise. The Constructicons were monsters, but at least they had perspective.

His perspective. "We understand," Hook said as Prowl glared after Ultra Magnus feeling betrayed. "We get you."

They did. Perhaps that was the most chilling part of what the former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord said to him. Prowl didn't know how lonely he'd been until five evil Decepticon murderers invaded his life, dug their way into the space around him, and made themselves at home. Chromedome and Ultra Magnus might have made him doubt himself if there weren't five voices openly admiring everything he said and did.

They'd seen his secrets, the reasons behind his actions, and adored him for what they'd seen. They were Decepticons in love with his mind, which should have spelled out every reasons he should doubt his own judgment right there, but yet, they _understood_ him.

The conflict lodged in his thoughts. It was a wedge into his mind, dividing him from the Autobots and levering him closer to them. He hated them so much for that. He had taken them from the Decepticons, but they wouldn't join the Autobots any more than he'd join the Decepticons.

They wanted to make him one of theirs, and they wanted to become his.

For a Decepticon courtship, he realized in a dim way somewhere in the midst of that second terrible, desperate formation of Devastator, the Constructicons were being positively respectful. Sure, they were obnoxious glitches leaning heavily on his boundaries. In fact, they didn't seem to recognize that he _had_ boundaries. Their hands reached for him the way their minds did during the second merge: hungry, tearing, needing. Their sparks consumed him, digested him, and made him part of them.

Yet when they separated, they still didn't have enough of him. He could feel them, syphonists jonesing for their next circuit booster, transformation addicts searching for a T-cog. They were there. They were close, always so close, but he could pick up on the hesitation on the bond, now. They crowded him, smiling and slapping each other on the back, pinning him in the middle where he couldn't break free right away, but their sparks and minds waited for him to let them in. He was strong, and he still wouldn't accept their overtures. He'd yanked himself out of them the second Devastator came apart, leaving a fresh, seeping wound in their minds and bodies. His end of the gestalt bond stayed ragged, rejecting the severed strands from their ends and refusing to let the bond knit together. They couldn't force him to join them.

That left convincing him in other ways. Call it courtship, label it persuasion. Their hands ran over him, their bodies pressed to him, and the energy they doused him in reeked of their desire, their want, and their lust. They loved him, reveled in his thoughts and craved his touch. They laid their adulation before his fingertips, a weapon at the ready, and mainlined it directly into his spark. It pulled at his systems deeper than raw arousal, and they fed it to him exactly how they felt it.

This was how they desired him. This is how they saw him, inside and out. They knew him the way no one else possibly could, and the emotional pull of the incomplete gestalt bond ached for him to join them. It was a physical itch along the foreign circuitry of the gestalt links, and a seduction swirling around his spark where the Constructicons coaxed and cajoled. Their minds whispered to him, always there, always so close:

Give in. They wanted him.

Let them in. They needed him.

Surrender. They would accept him, all of him, and be his sword if he would be their guiding hand.

Stuck in the center of the group, Prowl made a small, static-laden noise as he looked frantically for an escape from the bond entrenched in him, now. No, no he had to separate! He had to kill it, he didn't want this! He couldn't be absorbed into this group of cruel, vile Decepticons, the worst of the worst. He couldn't _do_ this, couldn't accept it much less embrace it, but a green and purple mech bent over him. A hand wrapped around his throat, palm compressing his air filter and thumb pushing his head back, and a mouth descended hot on his.

Hot, and somehow searching. The kiss looked for something, a momentary weakness perhaps. Anything that would grant a minute of indulgence to fill the empty place now that Devastator had separated. They were still on the battlefield, victory only just accomplished, but they already needed him. Scorching heat met heat, air blasting from combat-heated internal systems, but their bodies hummed in unison. The Constructicon tasted like Prowl, like part of himself, and he didn't know how to find where he ended and the other began. They kissed as if they could become one again. Maybe they were still joined in the tender space where sparks drew together.

The other four Constructicons drew tighter around them, armor grating against armor, and the whole unit shuddered in unison while Prowl ripped his spark free, fighting the last connection loose even as his mouth opened for the tongue mapping out his taste in a slick invasion of pressure and heat. A raging inferno of need/want/desire whipped through the severed bond, a storm of obsession easily mistaken for love as the Constructicons lashed it over and around the single spark they desired above all. It couldn't be touched, so they redoubled their attention to what they _could_ touch. Prowl gasped, back arching as a hand cupped under his chin and tipped it even further back, breaking the liplock so the Constructicon bending over him from behind could claim a turn.

Hands squeezed his tires, roughly fondled his bumper. Fingers delicately traced around his headlights, gentle on the cracks but greedy for contact. Someone nuzzled his midrift, breathing between the armor into vulnerable components. Someone else licked his Autobot insignia in quick flicks that made him squirm, startled at how sensitive every bit of him felt suddenly.

His fans had been spinning for obvious reasons only minutes earlier, but they were a loud roar in his audios now for completely different reasons. Prowl bit at the mouth moving over his own and only managed to shift their lips together in a harsh slide that sent glitters of teasing pleasure down his neck. The Constructicon nipped right back, catching his bottom lip for a second before letting it slowly drag out from between rough teeth, sucking hard the whole while. Prowl panted and tried not to groan.

No.

"No," he rasped, pushing feebly at the hands all over him. They were close. Always, always so close. It was too much, abrasion on tender welds still too sensitive to take it. They swarmed him physically, too close and too - too soon. They channeled too much of themselves into the fragile gestalt bond he wanted to rip out of himself, and the tentative flutters in the back of his mind, against his spark _hurt_. They were trying to force something that couldn't happen, that he wouldn't let happen. No.

They were being considerate for Decepticons, practically courting him nice and gentle, but he was an Autobot. They wanted him; he didn't want him.

One last kiss, hot and open-mouthed, the larger mech's lips covering his own and plunging a long tongue into his smaller mouth, and then the Constructicons backed off. Prowl's protest against the assault became a moan halfway into the tangle of tongues and electric transmission of fields (_need want please be ours as we are yours_), and he slumped when released. The air abruptly felt cooler, almost cold in his empty mouth, frosting his abandoned body.

As he'd wanted. Because he didn't want them. He didn't.

His throat worked in a pained swallow, and they were close. So very close, always so very close. Possessive of his talents, accepting of his flaws, and lovestruck in a way only a combiner team could be while watching and admiring their sixth member. They were there, and they were waiting.

It was getting harder to push them away.

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They were close. So close it was frustrating, _teasing_ how close they were, and they were doing it on purpose. He knew it, and they knew that he knew it, and he knew that they knew he knew it. So they drew it out deliberately, keeping themselves on the edge and so close that their sparks trilled pleasure around the periphery of his own in an extremely distracting way. Mischief and a wanton, yearning desire whispered in the corners of his mind, inviting and tempting him. They were close, and they wanted to bring him with them when they finally tipped over.

Prowl gave in.

A moment of weakness could be permitted. One and only one, for the purpose of taking care of this once and for all. He could afford to rest his forearm against a wall, lean his forehelm against his arm, and focus inward for a single moment. The rubble of Iacon hid him from view. He could use the uneasy truce with the remnants of the Decepticons, the returning Autobots, the mechs who'd ripped off the emblems of either faction. Theoretically, it was safe.

Maybe he should have resisted, but the pleasure drew sweet and heady under the steady pain of the gestalt bond he kept squeezed shut. Just…they were so close. He had to. This once, he had to.

He dimmed his optics and turned his face into the armor of his forearm, hiding how his face screwed up into what he wished was a disgusted grimace but wasn't. The shallow sensations transmitted by that accursed gestalt bond couldn't be completely blocked out, not if he wanted to keep track of that dangerous group of mechs, and he did. He _had_ do. He certainly didn't _want_ to, but he had to. If not him, who would control the rogue combiner team? They'd already splintered off from the Decepticons. They hadn't joined the Autobots. They'd put themselves under his command, whether he wanted the responsibility or not, and he couldn't very well let them go off to do whatever they wanted in the remains of Iacon.

Arcee had given him a knowing look when the Constructicons wandered off into the wreckage of the city. He'd wished he could send her after them, but his personal aversion to the mechs didn't allow for avoidance. He could track them, and therefore he would. Arcee's talents could be used elsewhere, especially since the Autobots who'd heard her confession kept sharp optics on what orders he gave her, now. They thought he'd use her as assassin again.

Of course, those optics also watched him warily for signs that the Constructicons were influencing him. Which they weren't. They were there, always there, but Prowl could block them out when he wasn't actively trying to keep tabs on them. Regardless of their wishes on the subject, he was not one of nor would he ever be a Constructicon like them.

They couldn't force him. They knew they couldn't force him, for all that they kept crowding and pushing and grabbing for him.

Inside their minds and sparks, however, the gestalt bond eased an inch deeper while they distracted him. It recoiled, stung, at the fierce pulse of rejection he seared it with. But they kept trying. They kept seducing him, coaxing him. Courting him. Adoring him for his mind and reaching for his body.

_Want_ bled off their EM fields the second danger passed, and jealousy filled their faces the moment he spoke with someone outside the boundaries of work. There was a lot of work to be done, but a defensive tinge flooded that dammed-up bond any time conversation with other Autobots shifted to anything other than business. Approval sang through them whenever they sampled the aura of calculation leaking through. It disturbed him how they knew the difference between when he felt genuine interest or concern versus when he feigned it to further the peace.

This disturbed him more. They courted and persuaded, but they had also started doing this. _This_, Primus damn them to the smelters! Did they think him so easily distracted? So simple that some pleasure would tempt him to their sides?

His hand clenched into a tension-shaking fist against the wall, and he bared his teeth as the aftertaste of something familiar swept over someone else's taste receptors. His tongue moved against a flirting pressure that wasn't there, and his lips relaxed momentarily to meet -

No. No, he wasn't there, this wasn't him. Prowl brought his free hand up to press to his chest, trying to ground himself in the here and now, but the Constructicons were so, so close. Their sparks strobed around his own, pulsing stars filling the darkness with light, and his attempt to squeeze the bond fully shut fumbled. The floodgates opened.

His mouth opened against nothing, his fingers clawing into his chest armor as if to rip out the bond, but the Constructicons drowned him in their pleasure. Hook slid against Bonecrusher; clever fingers worked under Mixmaster's hood; Scavenger's hands cupped the back of Long Haul's neck. And everywhere, everywhere was the uncomplicated joy that he'd joined them, delight that they were together. Minds muddled and saturated by the slow, cloying rise of bodily pleasure, the Constructicons pressed themselves into Prowl's mind and brushed his spark. Infuriatingly gentle, impossibly so for Decepticons, but they needed, they _needed_ him to accept, to take them in as they'd taken him. They wanted him there in their midst, and they drew him into the gestalt bond as deep as he'd let them. No further, no more, but they offered it all.

Against the wall, Prowl choked out a cry like denial, but his hand slipped down to find a panel. His chest panels didn't open up, but his fingers found their way in. An electric surge abruptly burned to meet the echoes through the bond.

Shock met it. Startlement. An abrupt tidal wave of hungry arousal over burgeoning alarm. What was he doing? Was he - no, wait, he couldn't do that! That was really, really hot, and no no no, they were supposed to be there, no, stop, please - !

They hadn't expected him to hold his own party. They'd been going all-out to tempt him to join them, not do his own thing, and now it had backfired spectacularly. They were the ones on the outside looking in, except that they were the ones desperately craving what they couldn't have. There was no temptation. They already needed what he dangled just out of reach.

Prowl's commlink lit up with multiple pings asking his location, seeking him. He muted it and pushed his fingers in deeper, fingertips reaching tender wires that vibrated as his engine accelerated hard. His fans whirred, temperature skyrocketing. While he stroked, optics off and attention totally on the slow pressure of his own touch, his body twisted under the onslaught of sizzling charge. He dug his forehelm into the wall and sucked in air, panting it back out in short bursts. A light pinch to the right relay cluster stabbed pleasure straight into his spark. He made sure to luxuriate in the backwash of energy as his engine stuttered and roared, shifting gear.

He was close. He was close and taking the time to linger on the edge, but the Constructicons were far away. They clamored at the edges of his mind, the borders of his spark, but the bond was weak. It was weak, choked nearly closed so that they couldn't tumble over the edge when he overloaded, but open enough that they felt every warm slide of fingers near his spark, every degree his temperature climbed. The bond was weak, and he was strong. Trying to manipulate him through it had been…unwise.

They stayed close, always so close. Always there, and always pressuring him. Prowl was learning how to use that against them.

He smiled grimly into the wall and arched back, vents hitching at the perfect pressure dragging down the outside of his spark chamber. It transmitted clean and clear, and his smile became something predatory as knees that didn't belong to him buckled.

By the time they found him, he'd finished. He'd taken his time, but the pleasure hadn't been easy to track. It'd left them leaning against each other more often than not. When they finally arrived, Prowl had already resumed stalking through Iacon's ruins. He looked as distant and composed as always. He gave the disheveled, softly steaming team standing in the middle of the street a contemptuous glance before moving on.

They gaped after him.

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	2. Pt 2

**Title: **Foreman

**Warning: **Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **IDW, Robots in Disguise

**Characters: **Prowl, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things.

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**Part Two: **Prowl, Constructicons – Donuts

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"This will work." Mixmaster had all the confidence in the world.

Which was fortunate, because Hook didn't have confidence in anyone but himself. Maybe Prowl, now. "This is ridiculous!"

"This will work," Mixmaster repeated, concentrating on his work. It had taken a combination of intimidation, persuasion, and a few discreet break-ins to get him the supplies he needed, but it'd be worth it. It would work, and Prowl would be _so impressed_.

Who else could do this? No one, that's who. He was the only one who could possibly do this. Even if anyone else had the skill, he was definitely the only one with the supplies to do it, since everything he needed had been procured by five mechs on a mission. Any place even suspected of having what he needed had been raided.

It'd been easy. Blurr's bar was still a wreck. Scavenger had swiped most of the energon and equipment on Mixmaster's list when the speedster had his back turned. Of course, getting Blurr to turn his back had taken picking a fight with the Dinobots again, and thus the Constructicons had been banished from onboard Metroplex. They were currently dwelling in disgrace on the outskirts of Iacon. It'd turned out for the best, as stealing from Wheeljack's lab was easier that way.

Their favorite Autobot would be all colors of pissed off if he found out they'd messed around in Wheeljack's stuff, however. Doubly so if he knew why. The plan was to impress him to the point he didn't ask where they'd gotten their supplies.

"This is never gonna work," Long Haul predicted glumly. He was still nursing some scorched plating from Snarl. His outlook on life was correspondingly grim.

Mixmaster glared at him from the corner of his optic but didn't turn from working. "Stop saying that. This'll work fine. Better than fine. You saw it, I saw it, frag," he snorted air out his vents and tossed his head in Hook's direction, "even **he** saw it. Prowl likes things like this. He just won't relax enough to indulge."

"That, and they ain't exactly been available. War, y'know." Bonecrusher leaned over Mixmaster's shoulder and swiped a finger through the bowl of pale pink gel on the workbench.

He'd set it down at last, putting it beside the separate bowls of dark green and delicate lavender frosting he'd already finished whipping. Three different minerals for flavor, three oils for the colors, and three different metals for the density and texture. One metal was flaked, another ground extremely fine, and the third crumbled into a sandy grit. It'd taken repeated experimentation, but he thought he'd gotten them right this time. Pride for that suffused the gestalt bond. He'd bet there wasn't a scientist left on Cybertron who could take a passing memory of a treat, backwards engineer the recipe, and have the skill to pull it off. There weren't many mechs who could distill decent engex any more. Solid energon chips had been one of Blurr's featured specialties simply because making the blasted things took time and talent war had killed off.

And then there was Mixmaster, who'd taken a hazy impression of Prowl's most hidden desires and decided he _would_ make them. Supplies and equipment were mere speedbumps on the road to slow him down. No lack of previous experience in energon formulation would stop him. He was a chemist. Surely recipes couldn't be that different.

Now he irritably batted Bonecrusher's hand away because he was down to his last vial of flavoring. Turned out that recipes weren't that different than chemical formulas, but tweaking the taste to match someone else's memories of chemical receptor levels had been…trying. His temper couldn't take much more of this.

Bonecrusher shared his fingerful of frosting among the others, and a pleasant hum purred along the gestalt bond. Huh. Yeah, that brought back old memories.

Also a newer memory, although it was also old. Just new to the Constructicons. Their optics and visors went blank as they compared the current taste to the remembered one.

"Too gritty."

"It's supposed to be gritty. The pink is for decoration and texture, not flavor."

"The others are firmer."

"That's because they're powders in suspension. As soon as they cooled and I stopped agitating them, they set."

"So this will run?"

"No. If I measured it right, this one will bond with the other two."

"Can I try?"

"How about you try shutting the frag up and letting me work?"

They shut the frag up and let him work.

The recipe called for heat-tempering, so he shoved the molds he'd prepared earlier into the oven as the frosting cooled. Time to discover if he or Hook were right - would it work, or would it fail?

Preheated, the oven immediately baked the molds red-hot. It took carefully applied but high heat to temper energon, especially energon mixed with metals and minerals of various melting points. Direct heat would cause a fire and probably an explosion, but if the correct temperatures weren't reached, the energon wouldn't set because none of the additives would integrate. Mixmaster's first and third attempts at baking had poured out of the mold, still liquid inside. The second attempt had resulted in hard little bricks, the energon's energy burnt out to leave behind an inedible crust of slag caked into the molds.

The fourth time, he'd gotten the temperature and timing right, but he hadn't known that greasing the molds was necessary. The results had been tasty but broken to pieces from being pried out of the molds.

This time, everything looked promising. The additives created reactions in the heat as they melted or evaporated, sending bubbles up through the energon. Trapped by a surface skin baked on by the heating coils, the gas expanded. Mixmaster stood stock still, watching in total focus as the mixtures puffed up in their molds. A messy explosion could happen at any moment if he'd missed one ingredient, or even if the ingredients were contaminated somehow, or if the heating coils glitched and didn't bake the surface of the mixture into a thick enough skin before the reactions started. Anxiety zinged through the bond as he stared intently.

Far and distant, suspicion prickled in response. Just what were the Constructicons up to? Prowl had been feeling flashes of excitement, frustration, and anxiety for the past four days. Except for the brawl with the Dinobots, he had no idea what was causing any of it. He cautiously opened up his end of the gestalt bond and probed through it like a mech with a stick poking a spark-eater. What was going on? What were they up to? Answer him. Hello? Hey. Hey, answer.

The Constructicons ignored him, for once. They were watching Mixmaster finally succeed. Inside the makeshift oven, the mixture set, bubbles baked in, and the chemist took the molds out right on time. He sighed in relief when a quick temperature scan came back in the right zone. What had been a liquid paste tipped out of the molds in soft, slightly squishy rings and disks, firm instead of mushy. Mixmaster immediately broke one apart and shared it among his team, who started out wary and ended up silently savoring what none of them had had since the beginning of the war. Before that, even. These hadn't been commonly available where they'd worked. Excess refined energon for confectionary formulation hadn't been something the working class got ahold of often, if at all.

Suddenly in a much better mood, Hook took over. He had the hands for detail work, although he didn't have much of an optic for decorating. That would have to be. The things just had to be pretty, not perfect.

Green and lavender frosting smoothed over each and every one of the treats, applied by a palette knife as Hook balanced the treats on his fingers. He scrutinized them from every angle before grunting approval and passing them on. Scavenger got them next, dabbling with the pink frosting. He swirled and streaked and speckled in whimsical patterns. Orange outlined the pink as it touched green and lavender, heat sizzling, but the reaction finished in a few seconds.

When Hook and Scavenger finished with the last one, Long Haul reverently laid it in the clear-topped box with the others. The Constructicons stood back and looked at what they had made, triumphant and relieved. It looked great.

By now, Prowl was pulsing signals of alarm and intense suspicion through the bond. Inquiries hammered at them nonstop. What were they doing? What had they done? Where were they? He was coming for them, and he wanted a full report on what trouble they had been causing, or so help him - !

Satisfaction purred back at him. Yes. Come find them. They had been bad, bad Constructicons. They needed close supervision. Come supervise them, Prowl - if he dared.

A trickle of apprehension leaked from the other side of the bond. That was not reassuring in the least.

Bonecrusher tied a string to the corner of the box, and then they hid, snickering quietly and almost buzzing with anticipation. Time to go fishing.

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**[* * * * *]**

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He gave the box a deadpan stare, something dull and resigned in his optics. This was it. He'd hit absolute zero. The absurdity had broken his sanity. Goodbye, reality.

The box jiggled enticingly. Attempting to understand a mindset that allowed for such stupidity gave him a processor ache. He offlined his optics and brought one hand up to massage at his chevron. "Bonecrusher, just...stop. Stop. I can see you pulling the string."

"You know you want it."

"I'm not a turbofox."

"You wa~ant it."

His optics lit briefly. The box danced. He shut them off again, but he couldn't stop thinking. Memory squeezed his tanks, and a swallow worked his throat without his permission. Chemical receptors along his tongue and the roof of his mouth primed for use despite his wishes. He had to manually shut them off one by one, opening program functions and stopping them.

Yet still the box was there when his optics lit. The string on the corner tugged. "Stop that." He offlined his optics, unwilling to watch the box.

_rustle rustle_

"I can hear you. Do not touch me, or I will break your hand." Fair warning, and they knew to take him at his word. He'd inflicted a dozen such small injuries on the Constructicons since they'd begun following him around.

The rustling didn't stop, however. It got louder, in fact, as footsteps approached. His scanners indicated the unit had him surrounded.

Oh, Primus. He could smell -

Prowl's optics lit, and he stared in despair at the green hand holding a lavender-frosted treat in front of his face. "One bite," the Constructicon coaxed. "Please? It would make us very happy."

"I am not concerned with your happiness." He winced in dread the second he opened his mouth, but the mech didn't push the thing between his lips. Somehow, the patience surrounding him made this harder to resist. They were trying their best to be respectful, even if it wasn't their version of respect. In a very backward way, they were being considerate and caring. They'd done this for him.

Without asking whether or not he wanted it, but why bother asking when they already knew the answer? He did want it. Just not from them. And that was the part they cheerfully refused to acknowledge.

A hand reached over his shoulder to swipe lavender frosting off the side of the confection and bring it slowly toward his mouth. "Prowl, just try it."

His head drew back as slowly as the finger approached. "I would rather not."

"It's not poisoned," someone promised, almost at a whisper.

"Try it," the Constructicon in front of him all but pleaded.

He told himself he stopped retreating because he'd drawn his helm back as far as his neck would allow. There were Constructicons surrounding him, hemming him in, and he couldn't evade. His hands clenched into shaking fists, and he'd have bitten his lip if he had less control.

They did as he'd ordered. They didn't touch him. The finger carefully, tenderly dragged a moist pressure along the crease of his lips, light as a breeze, and then it withdrew. Nothing more.

A flicker of resentment passed through his spark for that, although he wasn't entirely certain why. A lost opportunity to lash out, perhaps - or succumb.

Feeling suddenly annoyed by the silly waste of time, he growled his engine at the unit until they backed off a step. Once they withdrew a bit, he impatiently licked at the frosting smeared over his lips. The brisk gesture didn't give away how the burst of flavor overwhelmed him for a split second. How by the Pious Pools had they gotten the taste just right? The texture swept across his mouth as his tongue rubbed the grit against chemical receptors, pressure sensors titillated by silky-fine gel as the larger particles dissolved, flooding his senses.

He locked his joints and let his tongue dart at the last bit of the mess, cleaning it away. Because he preferred tidiness. Yes.

"That's it," one of them said, a relieved moan too intimate for watching him merely lick his lips.

The treat still in front of his face wiggled, tempting and hopeful. "Just one bite? Call it a quality control check. To test if it passes your standards."

Prowl bit his lip.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

See this chapter on A03 to check out the pic (The Temptation of Prowl) by Shibara, because she's awesome like that

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt 3

**Title: **Foreman

**Warning: **Read at your own risk.Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **IDW, Robots in Disguise

**Characters: **Prowl, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things.

* * *

**Part Three **

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

Prowl, Constructicons – "Finger-lickin' good"

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

There were no more donuts left.

Prowl frowned into the empty box, mind flashing through his options. Through careful bargaining, the Constructicons had traded the donuts for labor, if one could call their approach to bargaining anything but juvenile. They had gotten him to agree through nagging, whining, coaxing, and, last but most effective, sitting on the ground pouting. Fortunately, they'd been kicked off Metroplex for picking fights a couple weeks ago, or he had a sinking certainty that they'd have locked themselves in a washrack.

As it was, they'd followed him around, sat on the ground surrounding him, and sulked. Appearing mature was not one of their concerns. They got all of their behavioral validation internally; anyone else's opinion meant less than nothing to the gestalt. His opinion of them mattered, but they were an infernally clever bunch of glitches. They knew that he knew they were only doing it because he couldn't tolerate the way _they_ made _him_ look bad by association.

So they'd pouted and sulked and complained, refusing to leave him alone or help rebuild the city. They'd demanded he eat their box of treats in return for either.

He could have tolerated the nuisances being underfoot constantly. Having such valuable resources refusing to aid in cleaning up Iacon was unacceptable, however. It was just a waste.

He'd argued that Cybertron owed the metrotitan, and thus the Constructicons should work on Metroplex. They'd stood their ground. Well, sat on it. They'd sat there on the ground, all but leaning against his legs while Long Haul snoozed, Scavenger drew pictures in the rust, and none of them lifted a finger to help in Iacon until he'd consented to eat the ridiculous waste of time and effort they'd made.

Donuts. Of course they'd made donuts. It couldn't have been anything else. It had to be something incredibly personalized, something with connotations he didn't like thinking about and an element of nostalgia he knew he couldn't blot out. They meant it as a gift, but he understood it for a warning.

They'd been in his head. It worried him that he didn't know how deeply they'd delved. They'd pulled up a frivolous tidbit of his past to focus on, but he didn't know if it was because he'd successfully blocked them out of his operation memory files or because they were more interested in him as a person than his secure archives. Locking them out of his memories didn't work but distracting them with personal information had, and that worried him.

They'd found out far too much about the Autobots and his plans during the first merge. The first time, he hadn't been able to fight back and they hadn't actively been searching for anything. The second time, the Constructicons had surged into him already grasping for details, and he'd fought them the whole way. He didn't dare trust that they were more interested in him as their sixth member than as a chance to hack an Autobot officer. His subconscious had struggled to throw anything and everything at them that'd keep them out of classified information during the second merge. The back of Devastator's mind had been a chaotic flurry of old, unimportant memories as the Constructicons dug into him.

He'd meant to distract them, but they'd snapped up the information eagerly. Yes, give them more. Yes, personal memories, clues to who he'd been and was.

He recoiled from them, but they wanted him. They wanted him so badly it ached at the ends of the gestalt links and throbbed over the bond. Prowl pushed it aside whenever he could.

Either they couldn't, or they wouldn't. Instead of seeking to alleviate the strained connection through distance, they kept trying to get _closer_. It was extremely annoying.

Then they pulled stunts like the donut making, and Prowl skipped annoyance to plunge straight into infuriated.

Going through the experimentation and research necessary to make a confection Cybertron hadn't seen since the Neutrals fled could be considered a gallant gesture. Maybe. If they hadn't paged through his _head_ to get the taste right. If they hadn't held their labor hostage until they coerced him into eating the things. If he wasn't alarmingly affected by the blasted treat.

This was manipulation, plain and simple.

It worked, too. One at a time, sullen and glaring, he'd done what they wanted. Once every project, he ate a single donut in a few neat bites. He refused to linger over the task. While he had more dignity than to cram the solidified, frosted, stupidly decorated rings into his face, he did take overlarge mouthfuls in order to get the humiliation over with.

The problem was that they were a rich, incredibly nostalgic reminder of his past. He couldn't block them out, from the smell to the taste to even the texture. Mixmaster had recreated everything faithful to memories Prowl relived bite by bite, chewing quickly because otherwise he would slow down and savor.

Every bite sent a muted explosion over his chemical receptors as the taste hit him before the complicated intensity of heat-tempered energon reached his tanks. His systems had adjusted to war. They weren't ready for the layer upon layer of addictives enriching the treats, and his vision swam when the first swallow went down. His fuel tank didn't roil. It warmed. A heated flush of well-being spread through his gut and wrapped around his back struts until his fuel system glowed, it felt so _good_.

He couldn't help but shudder as his tongue rolled the textures around his mouth: trapped bubbles of minerals and metals inside the treats formed crispy bits of crunch as his teeth cracked, the gasses and minute pockets of liquid burst across his mouth, and the smooth, silky frosting slid across the roof of his mouth like graphite. Chewing crackled and mixed the sensations from the energon alone, but breaking the surface crust on the frosting created a greater reaction. Sudden zings of hot, sparking burn made him swallow repeatedly, tongue flicking over his upper and lower lip as he panted through his mouth to sooth the spicy tang that tasted exactly how he remembered it.

It could have been a guilty pleasure. He might have taken one of before sharing the rest of the box with the Autobots if the present came from any other admirers, under any other circumstances. However, he was excruciatingly aware of who they were from and how they'd been made. Seeing the manipulation as it happened to him tainted the treats, and they tasted of humiliation.

His shoulders hunched while he almost shoved the blasted things into his mouth to get it over with, and he hated the flood of taste and sensation. He hated how much he loved it.

Meanwhile, the Constructicons stared. They assembled at the beginning of every project they were assigned to, and they stared. They watched him select a donut from the box, and their vents draw in one deep breath as he ate it. They held that breath until he was done. It only rushed out of them once he finished, and it came out in a long sigh that sounded unnervingly erotic. The plush, static-prickling _feel_ of them rose around him like a scent, like an obscene plume of steam from overheated bodies. They reacted to his involuntary pleasure. The charge surged in them just from watching the movement of his jaw, the smear of frosting on his lip, the tiny glimpse of his tongue. He could feel them fantasizing.

Their minds danced on the borders of his own, constantly testing. They wanted him. They were trying to make him happy. Stalking and coercive as they were, they were also doing their level best to court him in an at least halfway acceptable manner. He didn't find it acceptable at all, but they honestly thought this was a viable compromise. He had enough insight into their past courtships to know how much worse it could be. Blackmailing him into eating their handmade treats probably didn't even register as even vaguely wrong for Decepticons.

All that in mind, he'd never been so happy to see an empty box.

It did, however, leave him wondering what would happen next. Iacon wasn't even close to being cleared for rebuilding. The Constructicons were debatably the best construction team available for the job, with the added advantage that they _wanted_ him to have any advantage he could find. If they were in the midst of the rebuilding, he'd be the first to know if they discovered anything. They wouldn't object in the slightest if certain blueprints were to be tweaked, the city built to his specifications. What he envisioned could become reality built by green and purple hands.

But the price for the cooperation of those hands had just risen out of reach. The Constructicons wanted to see him munch on the donuts, but now they knew what he - the Autobots, the Neutrals, even the other Decepticons - needed. What he wanted, and how to twist him about to pay their price to get it. He knew what kind of mechs they were. They'd use this to extort him, and the only other things he had to bargain with….

They'd accept another merge into Devastator. He knew that, but he wouldn't pay that price. The Constructicons had to realize that the bond went two ways. If they outright tried to force him into combining by refusing to rebuild Iacon, he could slam on his brakes as well. They'd just see how well the gestalt bond dealt with an entire city and a metrotitan between Prowl and themselves for a week or two, and then maybe they'd be ready to negotiate better terms.

They knew he'd hit back hard if they backed him into a corner. They also knew that there were other acts they could weedle him into agreeing with. Less professionally risky acts but more personally disgusting.

His doors flicked down, and he scowled at the empty donut box. It vexed him. No more easy outs.

…or was there?

The beginnings of a plan streamed out of his battle computer.

It didn't have much time to form before the Constructicons approached in a noisy pack, laughing and jostling each other. His plating shuddered at the phantom memory of touch, but he pushed aside the feeling of hands on him and plugs sliding into snug sockets. Ugh. Combiner teams and their unnatural closeness. Granted, they were built to fit together, but - "Do not touch me."

Grabby fraggers, all of them.

"Aww, come on," Long Haul said, crowding him. It would have been felt aggressive if friendliness and a starving hunger didn't pour off him. Prowl still bristled and pushed him away, and the Constructicon's hands went up before the Autobot had to break any more knuckle joints. "Hey, okay! Okay."

Bonecrusher got in a good one before Prowl could defend his backside, but he didn't go for the obvious grope. Instead, hands slid down the center of the smaller mech's back, thumbs dragging down the backstruts and fingers digging into his sides. Such a little groundframe, built for speed instead of strength. His hands could almost span Prowl's waist. He could lift the mech, no problem. The combine would have never worked if Prowl had replaced anything but Devastator's head, what with their comparative frame strengths.

"Hello to you, too - **ow!**" Both hands left that delectable waist to cover the fresh dents left in his helm from a quick uppercut. "Yeah, deserved it, I know."

The Constructicon took the hit in good humor, but Prowl growled his engine and ducked out of the group before they could close in around him. They liked to do that. Surrounding him made them feel powerful, protective, and what made it better was how he'd order them around from inside the huddle. It was like being his arms and legs without combining.

He put his back to a crumpled wall and threw the box at their feet. "They are out. No more." He jerked his chin at the clear lid, where a thick lump of lavender frosting had been left by a donut bumping into it. "Unless your absurd deal includes consuming that as part of the," his lip curled, "show."

Hook knelt to open the box, seeming more thoughtful than his disappointed teammates. He ran his finger through the leftover frosting and huffed a laugh. "It'd be nice. I'd certainly want to…see…oh…" He stared upward, shocked. Someone made a strangled sound that wanted to be an incredulous question but failed on actual word use.

Prowl twisted the wrist in his hand and regarded the frosting on the tip of one green finger. His face held no expression whatsoever. "Very well."

Vents stuttered a gasp.

Soft and warm. Hook took his optical system offline and concentrated on just that, only that, transmitting the raw sensor data in a broadcast that had Scavenger wobbling. The fine mechanisms of Prowl's tongue slid over sensors that hadn't been prepared for touch, much less a touch backed by a hot mouth closing slowly around it. Prowl deliberately closed his vents and redirected the air in a long, slow exhale through his mouth.

Hook's fingers were fine-tuned instruments of surgery. His vocalizer fizzled as feedback sluiced through his sensor network. His hands shook in tiny spasms of charge pinging back and forth in surface transfers from sensors to chemical receptors, receptors to sensors, plating to plating. Bonecrusher's knees buckled. Paralyzed by the strength of Hook's transmission, the Constructicons sagged against each other and simply absorbed the electric taste, the slick feel, even the calm, vented breath that went on and on. Oh, Primus. They wanted this Autobot. It hurt how he seared their sparks, but then he played their bodies, and oh. Oh.

Prowl listened to their ventilation systems kick into overdrive. Fans whirred to life, and he pressed Hook's fingertip to the roof of his mouth, tongue molding around it. A simmering burn writhed along the borders of his mind: fantasies, daydreams, and just plain pulling, needy lust as the other four Constructicons gaped. Hook bowed his head and moaned, low and desperate, and Prowl felt their bodies respond to the boil of arousal turning Hook's thoughts to a melted pool. They were imagining what else he could do, what else he _might_ do.

He sucked gently, optics meeting theirs, and they groaned in rough chorus. Prowl rubbed his tongue up to the tip, parting his lips to scrape his teeth over the knuckle before giving a dainty lick. The flat of his tongue caught the last of the frosting, but his face twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. It was totally unnecessary for him to close his mouth so his lips slid agonizingly slow off of Hook's now-clean finger.

**[* * * * *]**

_Picture over on A03 by Shibara, because she's awesome like that._

**[* * * * *]**

Totally unnecessary showmanship. Too far - or rather, not quite far enough. Hook's vocalizer whined a high-pitched sound of need as charge surged to the edge and balanced there, hanging.

And Prowl dropped his hand. "Get back to work," the Autobot said, taking a step back. He drew himself up, as cold as ever.

Five bleary expressions looked back at him. Comprehension dawned gradually.

"You," Hook managed between great gulping vents that did little to cool him, "are so incredibly hot. You're using us. You're using this," he waved his cleaned finger, still shaking, "to use us." The look on his face fought between awe and baffled rage.

"You're **manipulating** us," Mixmaster said.

"He's so cool," one of them whispered to another.

"Don't I know it," the other Constructicon whispered back.

"I can make more frosting," Mixmaster volunteered, and the team looked positively dazzled by the possibilities.

Prowl gave them an impassive glare, already calculating how hard he could push, how much he could get from them. "The bargain may need to be revised if you want a repeat."

If anything, the lovestruck look deepened.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

**Constructicons - "compliments"**

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

He ordered them to submit reports to him as a method of keeping them at a distance.

They were close, always so close, and Prowl wanted to keep them…away. Just away in general, but physically as much as possible. Things had gotten weirdly intimate, emotions seeping under his guard as the Constructicons pressed in on him. They knew his vulnerable points, they knew how to manipulate him. Instead of a straightforward assault, they were gently twisting their intel into a courtship, and they were so close.

So he sent them away. He put as much space as duty allowed between them, and he ordered them to submit reports on their daily activities. He demanded, and they provided.

They provided scrap. The first set of 'reports' didn't deserve the term. The files were a slovenly assemblage of half-completed sentences and cryptic references even a trusting fool could have seen were attempts to draw him into inquiring for more information. Prowl narrowed his optics at the transmission - the timestamp confirmed it'd been sent late, of course - and scheduled himself across the city for the rest of the week. Then he highlighted every grammatical error, vague point, and missing time frame in each report, attached a short, impersonal note about how disappointing he found their failure to complete simple tasks, and sent the reports back.

The second day's reports probably would have annoyed someone who cared. Prowl stood in the middle of the street he'd been in when the reports transmitted - late again - and vented in. In and out, long calming cycles. The blasted gestalt bond buzzed at the edge of awareness, mischievous and faintly hopeful. He put a brutal choke-hold on it, annotated the reports for return, and went on with his work. He refused to care. That's what they wanted. They wanted him to pay attention to them, and he wouldn't.

It hurt to pinch the gestalt bond closed. The back of his spark ached in a dull, building throb. He ignored it. The pain was worse for those who'd invested more in it, he was sure, and it wasn't like his processors weren't already aching at the end of every day. Between Starscream and Optimus Prime, his life was slightly difficult at the moment. The oncoming trial added stress to the pile.

He neither cared nor wanted to care about the comfort and interest of the worst group of cruel, sadistic murders this side of the planet.

The third day, he shunted the transmission aside to sort out later. At the end of the shift, he steeled himself for disappointment and was pleasantly surprised to find a full report mixed in among the other four. Long Haul, in apparent attempt at sniping back at him for the nagging corrections, had written up the exact measurements of every single cargo he'd hauled that day. Pick-up times and deliveries were all noted down, along with loading and receiving locations. The names of shippers and receivers were included, and Long Haul had sent their signatures in a separate file. He'd even accounted for shift beginning, breaktimes, and shift end.

Prowl read through the report twice, nodded, and sent back a curt, "Acceptable." After some thought on encouraging good habits versus snark, he reluctantly added, "Your handwriting has improved."

He meant it as a backhanded insult to point out how sloppy the mech's writing had been previously, but he wasn't sure that came through. He was immensely puzzled by the fourth day's report from Long Haul. It still transmitted late, but it was written in what was obviously the Constructicon's best penmanship. Everything was handwritten this time, even the schedule.

That hardly seemed efficient, but since the relevant information had been included? No reason to complain. In fact, Prowl was grudgingly impressed by the amount of cargo hauled. He could respect hard work.

"Your shipping rate is above average," he noted. He didn't like favoring soldiers, but acknowledgement of a job well done harmed no one.

The report returns were shuffled into his queue to be transmitted at the start of the next shift. He didn't think about it again.

A warm burst of excitement came from the other end of the gestalt bond later that night, however. It fluttered around the periphery of his mind in recharge, through gluey memory fluxes full of voices talking. He couldn't quite understand what they were saying, and he frowned his way online in the morning, inexplicably happy and therefore suspicious of his own good mood.

He didn't know what to think about the next set of reports the Constructicons sent him. They were late, but they were, well, written correctly. In Long Haul's case, hand-written. While not every minute was accounted for, the reports painted a detailed picture of the unit's day. He read the reports one by one, comparing times to map out where each Constructicon had been, what they'd been doing, with whom, and when. Even verbal reports hadn't provided this much information! The reports accounted for their activities, letting him easily cross-check with more reliable reports.

Their reports gave him an accurate picture of their day - as well as an offhanded peripheral awareness of what others had been doing nearby.

Something Mixmaster seemed to have been aware of. His report included notes on the mechs he'd been working with. Prowl pored over those notes, updating his files.

Grimly satisfied, he sent, "Your ability to perform standard tasks has shown vast improvement. Continue this trend."

He paid attention, this time. The flurry of warmth on the other end of the nearly-closed bond could have been ignored, but he studied the excitement. It spangled at the edges of his spark. It fluttered around his mind in a cloud of hazy, pleased confusion. The Constructicons felt something that they didn't quite know how to deal with. Why? All Prowl had done was acknowledge their work.

…ah. That was it, wasn't it? The Decepticons didn't do acknowledgement. Positive acknowledgement, that was. They did negative acknowledgement all the time.

_"__About time you finished that." _

_ "__What, that's the best you can do?" _

_ "__Congrats, a dead mech could have done that faster."_

Prowl had done enough of that in his own time, especially while trying to get the Constructicons to do what he wanted. The tentative balance they were still sorting out made him cautious about offering anything that might encourage them, so he'd fallen back on more abrasive feedback to get his point across. Dismissive sneering, snapped commands, and icy silence had worked so far. Phrased through positive recognition, mechs might take it to mean that he returned their affection, or at least accepted it. It would build up goodwill instead of tear down. One encouraged cooperation via a closer working relationship, while the other spurred on negative connotations side-by-side with the work.

He'd snapped the whip, and they'd responded about as well as anyone would expect a bunch of Decepticons under an Autobot to.

Real words of acknowledgement had the Constructicons a-twitter, throwing themselves into their assigned tasks and doing extra in hopes of earning more. Actual praise from the right mech would probably floor them.

"Well done," as said by Prowl could have immediate consequences, if the glittering threads of pleasure wrapping around his spark meant anything.

Standing in the dark, the tactician's smile flashed white and narrow. One more method of control, handed to him on a silver platter, and this one could be implemented from a distance. Perfect.

The Constructicons had no idea why the other side of the gestalt bond suddenly felt so good.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt 4

**Title: **Foreman

**Warning: **Read at your own risk. Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **IDW, Robots in Disguise

**Characters: **Prowl, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things.

* * *

**Part Four **

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**[* * * * *]**

Prowl/Constructicons - "cliche"

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

The only way this could be more cliché was if they'd had one blanket during a blizzard.

That would have been preferable. Prowl could withstand freezing temperatures on his own and wouldn't have minded leaving the Constructicon to die. He could not, however, withstand several tons of collapsed building that had come down on top of him. The angle had been all wrong, and he hadn't gotten more than two steps before realizing he couldn't outrun it. The workers had shouted, and he'd braced himself, furious at the futility but despairing because there were no options, he was out of options, the building was collapsing -

And the gestalt bond had lit up in panic and a fierce sense of _focus_ right before a whirling impact knocked him sideways and the world pounded down upon him.

Now…this. Trapped under wreckage, his body pressed to his savior's, unable to escape. It was enough to make a mech wish for a blizzard.

Prowl wanted to squirm, but he'd already scanned their tiny pocket of open space. There wasn't anywhere to squirm to. Moving would serve no purpose other than to possibly destabilize the precarious balance of the building girders holding the wreckage at bay. Besides which, the Constructicon crouched over him would enjoy it too much. Prowl could not, in good conscious, allow himself to squirm knowing that.

Air vented hot on the back of his neck, and Prowl ruthlessly cut power to his hip actuators. He would. Not. _Squirm_.

Long Haul's helm vents blew down on him again, harsh heavy panting breaths as the rubble pressed into the Constructicon's back. Gravity crushed them both into the ground, held off by the intersection to two building spars directly across Long Haul's shoulders. It had been a last second rescue made possible by a prediction only Bonecrusher could have made, seeing the slow, inevitable fall of the wreckage coming down on Prowl. The mech had an instinctive understanding of construction and destruction, and it'd been his focus Prowl had felt spike through the bond.

That instinct had saved his life. Long Haul's reckless sprint to tackle him deserved equal credit. Prowl's frame didn't have the strength to hold up under the weight that'd come down on them, but Long Haul's did. The hands on either side of Prowl's forearms were braced wide, unable to shift more than the fingers. Elbows locked, arms lined up under his shoulders like loadbearing supports for the building above them, Long Haul held the building on his back. He breathed deep and waited. The inside of his thighs pressed to the outside of Prowl's, but Long Haul didn't take advantage of their position. His legs didn't move. They were locked solid, knees digging into the ground and feet bracing them in place.

Prowl sprawled on his front to make room for his back-mounted doors between them, arms ahead of himself and knees drawn up under him to allow for his prominent chest. The awkward position pressed Long Haul's chest between his doors and all but glued their lower halves together. There was an inordinate amount of foreign plating pressed to his own, and Prowl denied the dormant gestalt links as they pinged queries at him. No, this wasn't the prelude to a combine. This was a prelude to nothing, thank you very much. Long Haul crouched over him in this horribly intimate position because there were building girders flat across his back. That was the only reason. That was it!

That explained how Long Haul had turned their tiny shelter into a furnace, too. The mech billowed heat, but that could be easily explained by what he was doing. A perfectly logical explanation, and one that Prowl chose to believe. He could feel the whirring labor from mechanisms straining within the Constructicon's chassis. Long Haul stoically took the weight, arms faintly shaking on either side of him.

The Constructicon ducked his head further as the wreckage shifted, and Prowl grimaced as the slight motion shielded his own helm from a patter of sharp rubble. "Thank you," he bit out, because he _was_ grateful, and he _understood_ that he'd been saved, but _ugh_.

"No problem."

_The fitful static from their commlines broke into words as someone on the other side attempted to reach them again. __*On—-r way! We'll ha—dig y—-t, but hang tigh—*_

"Understood," he said curtly into his commlink. It didn't matter if his transmission got through. No one would abandon the rescue, not with four worried Constructicons free to pester the dig team. Prowl knew they'd find him

It unsettled him a little how reassuring he found that.

"What, they think we're going to run away?" muttered against the back of his neck, and Prowl's doors shuddered at the combination of a hot rush of air and angry words. Combat protocols bypassed new gestalt programming, spinning up to ready him for a fight. That's what he expected from a large Decepticon close quarters.

His reaction didn't go unnoticed. Around the edges of his spark, in the nebulous area where the end of his thoughts once were, the five minds constantly there drew back. A sense of hesitation brushed over him, like they were passing his wariness around asking each other what they'd done. Realization dawned and a rough-edged projection of peace swiftly followed. Long Haul's engine accelerated from a stressed idle to a rumbling purr that vibrated down into Prowl. The gestalt program pinged him insistently, targeting his own cylinder cycles. It wanted him to sync with Long Haul.

It took him a minute to understand that the Constructicons were trying to soothe him. His doors tucked in close. No. Just…no.

Long Haul tipped his head back to open up as much space as he could. "Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you. We'd never hurt you."

Prowl would believe that of no one, not ever again. "Be quiet," he ordered.

The order got him a few minutes of silence. He seized it, sinking into his thoughts, but the Constructicons were up to something. He could feel it. As much as he'd like to, he couldn't ignore the activity around his spark and in the corners of his mind where he couldn't seem to chase them out. They communicated with each other in flickers of thought and feeling faster than he could speak through a commlink. He could only monitor their sudden spate of activity and silently urge the rescuers to dig faster.

After twenty minutes, Long Haul drew in a deep vent of already hot air. It was doing nothing to cool either of them anymore. "Look, we've gotta talk. We want to join your — "

"Shut up."

"No! You keep shutting us down when we try to talk this out with you — "

"Because there's nothing to talk about."

"Will you just let us speak?! We have a say in this, you know! We're stuck to your spark, too, so you gotta concede something to us — "

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Do not."

"Do too!"

It was immature, but he couldn't stop himself. "Says who, exactly? Megatron? Your leader, you might have noticed, is in the stockades."

The rubble shifted ominously above them, and Long Haul's reflexive twitch stopped dead. Prowl had already flinched low, pressing into the ground to get away from what could have either been a reaction to a the Decepticon leader's name or an attempt to strike him for the reminder. He couldn't tell which. The gestalt bond didn't feel malicious, but it never did, not even when the Constructicons had been fighting the Dinobots. Violence was the norm for the combiner team. They could kill as easily as they did anything else.

He had to remember that. Above all, he had to remember that even though the gestalt program wanted to accept the soothing, the physical contact, the murmurs on the edge of hearing - despite everything that wanted to keep them close, he couldn't trust them. They were everything the gestalt connection promised _at the same time_ they were everything he'd seen in their heads.

The minds around his own reached, trying to catch his thoughts. Objections hammered at the closed bond, hurt by the abrupt rejection of their comforting presences. They wanted to make him understand and understand him, but Prowl shut them out. He would always shut them out. They didn't belong in his head anymore than he belonged in theirs.

He was trapped. The threat of being crushed alive was just one more threat in a long line of life-threatening dangers. The sheltering body between it and him was new, but the Constructicon shielding him was the hard place opposite a rock. Another trap, disguised as a savior.

Long Haul gently nudged the back of his helm. "Prowl, please. Just listen."

Blue optics glared at the ground in front of his face. Determination covered the fear he wouldn't admit to. "Be. Quiet."

"No. We're going to talk about this now, while you can't — urk!" Prowl gave another grinding squirm, deliberately working his hips. His aft scraped where it would devastate the most. Long Haul made a soft sound more telling than the way his arms shook. Determination melted into a desperate, persuasive tone. "D-don't. Don't do that. We need to talk. Just — can we talk?"

He flexed his doors back against the Constructicon's chest, sliding them down as far as the hinges allowed. Long Haul swallowed another tiny noise as doors sleeked down against his midriff, but Prowl's hips rolled up, and the Constructicon's vocalizer bleated a distressed blurt of static. Prowl managed to pull one arm back under himself when the mech above him somehow found the strength to scrunch upward as if burnt by the extra contact. That got his hand into position to rub the fingers over a panel that covered wires leading to his spark chamber, and Prowl gave it a suggestive tap.

Long Haul's fans caught. He'd heard that.

"Fine," Prowl said, level and calm. "Let's talk."

"Don't do that." The Constructicon's voice was nowhere near level.

"You wanted to talk. I'm listening. Unless you'd like me to stop?" The panel popped open. It sounded far too loud in the small space.

Long Haul's arms jerked, one hand trying to move, but he couldn't. The weight above them was too great. He was pinned as he was, with no relief in sight and his elusive, aloof sixth team member stroking his own wires under him. Prowl could feel the way his spark wailed to the others for help, and their confusion transmitted in return. None of them knew what to do.

"That's not fair," whined against the back of his neck.

"Those are my terms," he said. His fingertips probed deep, reaching for a particularly sensitive relay cluster. He arched as much as he could when they found it, and he didn't even try to muffle the breathy sound of pleasure. Electricity raced, charge building dense enough to taste, and his spark thrummed into the gestalt connection. "Talk."

Long Haul slumped as much as he could. "…stop. I won't — you win."

Prowl hummed acknowledgement and let his hand fall out of his chest, palming the panel shut. The warm flush of arousal would cool soon enough. He was stuck in an even more awkward position, now, but the silence was worth it.

"You're not even being subtle about manipulating us anymore," the Constructicon complained.

"I fail to see how being upfront in dealing with your unit can be twisted into a complaint." He might have put a little too much smugness into his voice, but what were they going to do? They wanted him, and they wanted to make him want them. He had no compunction over using that against them.

Silence fell, broken only by the rush of fans and Long Haul's uncomfortable wriggling as aroused systems cooled slowly. Prowl stayed perfectly still. The rescue team would reach them before he moved again.

He did harbor a slight worry that the Constructicons would go behind his back after this, but really. What could they do?

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

Prowl - "bride price"

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

They found Optimus Prime at what had once been Iacon's center. They didn't interrupt the meeting, but the post-meeting political dancing about did finish in a hurry when there were five hulking construction frames lurking at the edges of the crowd. They occupied themselves making faces at Starscream. Prowl tensed further and further until he practically vibrated with rage and embarrassment.

His hissed commands to go away were blithely ignored, and for once, they blocked _him_ out of the gestalt. They weren't there for him, believe it or not. When he stalked away from the group, indignantly stiff, the Constructicons watched him go wistfully but didn't follow. That would alarm him eventually when he noticed his shadows were missing. Right now he was six kinds of flouted anger at them and was intentionally ignoring their presence. He wouldn't figure out they weren't following him for at least fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes they intended to use. "You want to what?" Optimus Prime asked, bemused.

"Purchase him," Hook said firmly. The others nodded behind him, just as resolute. They'd clearly made up their minds on this issue. "You're his leader, right? Superior officer. We're not asking for ownership," he assured the Autobot commander, "but you have the authority to officially transfer him into our unit. We want to buy his commission."

The Prime blinked slowly. He did it again, wondering if he'd taken a hit to the head.

The Constructicons held out their offer on eager hands, presenting it to him. "We have blueprints for rebuilding the city, a statement of neutrality - "

"We're not going to be Autobots."

" - yeah, we can't do that. But we can be neutrals, and we'll accept him as our commander. We want to follow him, Prime, we do."

"Work contracts," Bonecrusher spread the datapads out, showing the drafts, "of varying lengths and project allowances. No monetary compensation or bartering required. All we want is - "

"Him," the whole group said as one. Their voices held yearning dark with frustration, need, and a bright, wanting possessiveness Decepticons likely mistook for love.

Optimus Prime just stared at them, speechless and a little tempted.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

Constructicons - "IKEA"

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

For the most part, they behaved.

Prowl knew he didn't want them along, but he knew that they couldn't be left behind, either. What he found suspicious was Optimus Prime including them on the Earth mission without consulting him first. It had been delicate enough work getting the Prime to accept him for the mission, and the Constructicons were automatically included? There was something not quite right about that. He'd thought he'd have to argue for their inclusion.

But they'd never even doubted they'd go where he went. He was one of them, now. They'd shown up, ready to board and confident that of course they were on the roster, and he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on why that alarmed him.

Apart from the obvious, that was. He'd had to lock his door and stand in front of it to keep them from moving right in.

"But we're your unit," Scavenger protested. "Prime said so!"

That by itself made him twitch. "Yes. I've been informed that I've been assigned command of your unit." He understood Optimus Prime's reasoning, but there was, again, something _off_ about the whole thing. The Prime had become too easily swayed by pretty words and simpering, he thought. He would have demanded concessions of the glitches if it had been up to him, but the decision had been taken out of his hands. He'd been assigned to ride herd on the Constructicons, and he would do his duty.

Five expectant mechs gave him the brightest of looks, waiting with optic filaments positively glowing. It took effort not to retreat into his closed door to get away from that look. "Y'know, we're your unit."

"I'm aware of that." Icicles dripped off his voice.

Hook sidled a step closer while Prowl was distracted glowered at Bonecrusher's straying hand. "You could also say you're in **our** unit," the surgeon said, faux casual.

"I could," Prowl growled, "but you'll notice that I'm not. **You** are **mine**. **I** am not **yours**."

The group stared at him, and he realized he'd said exactly the wrong thing. They shuddered in eerie unison, starting with Hook on the far side and shivering around through to Bonecrusher. "I can live with that," Long Haul said in a strangled voice.

"Can you…say that again?" Bonecrusher asked hopefully. His hands snatched back behind his own back. Breathing hard, he rocked back and forth on his heels, vents running as if he'd come straight from combat. "I want a clear recording."

"Got it," Hook said, low enough to be a whisper but too intense for that. "You don't belong to us. We belong to you." The Constructicons shuddered again, a sweet pressure vibrating around the edges of Prowl's spark in a restless motion that kept trying to close in on him.

He opened his mouth to deny Hook's words - it sounded wrong, something about it sounded entirely and awfully _wrong_ despite it technically being true - and changed his mind. "You are mine in an official capacity, nothing more. As subordinates on a probationary trial period while avenues for separating me from the gestalt without undue harm to you are explored." He'd been informed that was a necessity by the medics, although he'd argued that neutralizing the worst group of crazed, cruel killers among the Decepticons could be done right then. The bond was not buried so deep in his spark that it would cripple him. Not yet, and he wanted it gone before time burrowed it deeper.

Optimus Prime had informed him that the war was over for those Decepticons who had not left after Megatron's desertion. Prowl had nearly yelled at the Prime for his stupidity. Had losing the Matrix made the mech naively trusting of the whole universe? Prowl knew better! The Constructicons could never be trusted, could never be allowed close, and the delicate fingers sliding silk and satin over his spark were lies. The Constructicons _lied_. Trusting them to do anything but scrap outsiders to their cabal was blatant idiocy.

He had seen their minds. They were corrupt and would betray anyone who dared trust them.

But not him. No, not him. They would not survive the attempt. He had made sure of it. He had taken the necessary precautions to make betraying _him_ a lethal action, and no one would ever suspect what he'd done afterward.

The Constructicons stared at him, stripping him from his armor and stroking over his mind with their optics. The cold, narrow focus of him burned amidst the admiration fizzing in effervescent spurts from them. "Yeah. Right, boss. Whatever you say."

Somehow, their acceptance failed to comfort him. The niggling feeling that he was _missing_ something just wouldn't leave him be.

"We brought you something for your room," Scavenger piped up after a long period of staring at him. "Can we at least set it up?"

Fragging Pit. "What is it?" he asked warily.

"A desk. We made it to your specs."

That seemed fairly harmless. They liked making and giving him things, he'd noticed, and he wasn't above exploiting them for labor. "Very well." He stepped aside, reluctant but resigned as five too-large Decepticons crowded past him in a rush. Ugh.

He stood in the door to supervise, and they did behave. Mostly. He saw how their optics lingered on the berth, assessing and measuring and probably planning filthy things he wanted no part of. He refused to acknowledge that, and they moved on to actual work. They unpacked the desk parts and clustered in a humming, happy group as they set it up. There was nothing that stood out as wrong, but…

It was just that they kept putting certain parts together and taking them apart again and again: screws winding into sleeves in slow, deliberate, long twists of thumb and forefinger, and sheets of metal sliding in and out of grooves. The sleek scrape of polished surfaces snugging home repeated in a heavy rhythm that tugged at the edges of his thoughts. Prowl frowned at the inefficiency at first, then began shifting on his feet as he grew increasingly uncomfortable with the repeated steps.

Combine. Take apart. Slowly, suggestively build all the various parts back into one. Perfectly fitted parts clicked against each other, and the Constructicons peered at him from the corners of their optics and visors the whole while, hungry and hovering at the back of his mind.

They were behaving, but. But.

There was just _something_ bothering him about all of this.

Prowl couldn't quite see what had him on edge.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

**_[ A/N:_**_Aaaaaand that's a wrap. Might add more, but I doubt it._


End file.
